Watching the English

by Kate Fox

  Handshakes are now the norm in business introductions – or, rather, they are the norm when people in business are introduced to each other for the first time. Ironically, the first introduction, where a degree of formality is expected, is the easiest. (Note, though, that the English handshake in these contexts is almost always somewhat awkward, very brief, performed ‘at arm’s length’, and without any of the spare-hand involvement – clasping, forearm patting, etc. – found in less inhibited cultures.)

  At subsequent meetings, particularly as business contacts get to know each other better, a handshake greeting often starts to seem too formal, but cheek-kisses would be too informal (or too pretentious, depending on the social circle), and in any case not allowed between males, so we revert to the usual embarrassed confusion, with no one being quite sure what to do. Hands are half extended and then withdrawn or turned into a sort of vague wave; there may be awkward, hesitant moves towards a cheek-kiss or some other form of physical contact such as an arm-touch – as no contact at all feels a bit unfriendly – but these are also often aborted halfway. This is excruciatingly English: over-formality is embarrassing, but so is an inappropriate degree of informality (that problem with extremes again).

  The No-name Rule

  In purely social situations, the difficulties are even more acute. There is no universal prescription of handshakes on initial introduction – indeed, they may be regarded as too ‘businesslike’ – and the normal business practice of giving one’s name at this point is also regarded as inappropriate. You do not go up to someone at a party (or in any other social setting where conversation with strangers is permitted, such as a pub bar-counter) and say ‘Hello, I’m John Smith,’ or even ‘Hello, I’m John.’ In fact, the only correct way to introduce yourself in such settings is not to introduce yourself at all, but to find some other way of initiating a conversation – such as a remark about the weather.

  The ‘brash American’ approach: ‘Hi, I’m Bill, how are you?’, particularly if accompanied by an outstretched hand and beaming smile, makes the English wince and cringe. The American tourists and visitors I spoke to during my research had been both baffled and hurt by this reaction. ‘I just don’t get it,’ said one woman. ‘You say your name and they sort of wrinkle their noses, like you’ve told them something a bit too personal and embarrassing.’

  ‘That’s right,’ her husband added. ‘And then they give you this tight little smile and say, “Hello” – kind of pointedly not giving their name, to let you know you’ve made this big social booboo. What the hell is so private about a person’s name, for God’s sake?’

  I ended up explaining, as kindly as I could, that the English do not want to know your name, or tell you theirs, until a much greater degree of intimacy has been established – like maybe when you marry their daughter. Rather than giving your name, I suggested, you should strike up a conversation by making a vaguely interrogative comment about the weather (or the party or pub or wherever you happen to be). This must not be done too loudly, and the tone should be light and informal, not earnest or intense. The object is to ‘drift’ casually into conversation, as though by accident. Even if the other person seems happy enough to chat, it is still customary to curb any urges to introduce yourself.

  Eventually, there may be an opportunity to exchange names, providing this can be achieved in a casual, unforced manner, although it is always best to wait for the other person to take the initiative. Should you reach the end of a long, friendly evening without having introduced yourself, you may say, on parting, ‘Goodbye, nice to meet you, er – sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’ as though you have only just noticed the omission. Your new acquaintance should then divulge his or her name, and you may now, at last, introduce yourself – but in an offhand way, as though it is not a matter of any importance: ‘I’m Bill, by the way.’

  One perceptive Dutch tourist, after listening attentively to my explanation of this procedure, commented: ‘Oh, I see. It is like Alice Through the Looking Glass: you do everything the wrong way round.’ I had not thought of recommending Alice as a guide to English etiquette, but on reflection it seems like quite a good idea.

  The ‘Pleased to Meet You’ Problem

  In a small social gathering such as a dinner party, the host may solve the name problem by introducing guests to each other by name, but these are still awkward moments, as the decline of ‘How do you do?’ means that no one is quite sure what to say to each other when introduced in this manner. ‘How are you?’, despite having much the same meaning, and being equally recognised as a non-question (the correct response is ‘Very well, thank you’ or ‘Fine, thanks’ – or even the more American-sounding ‘I’m good, thanks’ – whatever your state of health or mind), will not do in initial introductions, as custom dictates that it may only be used as a greeting between people who already know each other. Even though it does not require an honest answer, ‘How are you?’ is far too personal and intimate a question for first-time introductions.

  The most common solution, nowadays, is ‘Pleased to meet you’ or ‘Nice to meet you’, ‘Good to meet you’ or some other variation. But in some social circles – upper class and the higher ranks of upper-middle – the problem with this common response is that it is just that: ‘common’, meaning a lower-class thing to say. The people who hold this view may not put it quite like that – they are more likely to say that ‘Pleased to meet you’ is ‘incorrect’, and you will indeed still find etiquette books that confirm this. The explanation offered by some etiquette books is that one should not say, ‘Pleased to meet you’ as it is an obvious lie: one cannot possibly be sure at that point whether one is pleased to meet the person or not. Given the usual irrationalities, dishonesties and hypocrisies of English etiquette, this seems unnecessarily and quite uncharacteristically scrupulous.

  Whatever its origins or dubious logic, the prejudice against ‘Pleased to meet you’ is still quite widespread in the higher social classes, often among people who do not know why it is that they feel uneasy about using the phrase. They just have a vague sense that there is something not quite right about it. ‘Nice to meet you’ is often preferred, presumably because ‘nice’ is a more neutral term than ‘pleased’ – and ‘nice’ is so overused as to be virtually meaningless – but there are still some who feel uncomfortable even with this restrained alternative.

  Even among those with no class prejudice about ‘Pleased/nice/good to meet you’, who believe it is the correct and polite thing to say, this greeting is rarely delivered with ringing confidence: it is usually mumbled rather awkwardly, and as quickly as possible – ‘Plstmtye’ (or Nctmtye, Gdtmtye, etc.). This awkwardness may, perversely, occur precisely because people believe they are saying the ‘correct’ thing. Formality is embarrassing. But, then, informality is embarrassing. Everything is embarrassing.

  The Embarrassment Rule

  In fact, the only rule one can identify with any certainty in all this confusion over introductions and greetings is that, to be impeccably English, one must perform these rituals badly. One must appear self-conscious, ill-at-ease, stiff, awkward and, above all, embarrassed. Smoothness, glibness and confidence are inappropriate and un-English. Hesitation, dithering and ineptness are, surprising as it may seem, correct behaviour.21 Introductions should be performed as hurriedly as possible, but also with maximum inefficiency. If disclosed at all, names must be mumbled; hands should be tentatively half proffered, then clumsily withdrawn; the approved greeting is something like ‘Er, how, um, plstm– er, hello?’

  If you are socially skilled, or come from a country where these matters are handled in a more reasonable, straightforward manner (such as anywhere else on the planet), you may need a bit of practice to achieve the required degree of embarrassed, stilted incompetence.

  THE RULES OF ENGLISH GOSSIP

  Following the customary awkward introductions and uncomfortable greetings, and a bit of ice-breaking weather-speak, we move on to other forms of groomi
ng-talk. (‘One must speak a little, you know,’ as Elizabeth said to Darcy. ‘It would look odd to be entirely silent.’)

  Strangers may stick to the weather and other relatively neutral topics almost indefinitely (although the weather is the only topic that is entirely safe – all other subjects are potentially ‘dangerous’, at least in some situations, and all carry at least some restrictions as to when, where and with whom they may be raised). But the most common form of grooming-talk among friends, in England as elsewhere, is gossip. The English are certainly a nation of gossips. Recent studies in this country have shown that about two-thirds of our conversation time is entirely devoted to social topics such as who is doing what with whom; who is ‘in’, who is ‘out’ and why; how to deal with difficult social situations; the behaviour and relationships of friends, family and celebrities; our own problems with family, friends, lovers, colleagues and neighbours; the minutiae of everyday social life – in a word: gossip.22

  If you want a more formal definition of gossip, the best I have come across is Noon & Delbridge (1993): ‘The process of informally communicating value-laden information about members of a social setting.’ This does not quite cover all aspects of gossip – it excludes gossip about celebrities, for example, unless the concept of ‘members of a social setting’ is intended to include film stars, sports stars, pop stars, television stars, royals and politicians, which seems unlikely. But, to be fair, there is a sense in which our gossip about celebrities does involve treating them as though they were members of our own social group – our conversations about the conflicts between characters in soap operas and ‘reality’ shows, the relationship problems of supermodels and the marriages, careers and babies of film stars are often indistinguishable from our gossip about family, friends and neighbours – so I’ll give Noon & Delbridge the benefit of the doubt on this point.

  In fact, one of the reasons I like this definition is that it gives some indication of the range of people about whom gossipy information may be communicated, including the gossipers themselves. Researchers have found that about half of ‘gossip time’ is taken up with discussion of the activities of the speaker or the immediate audience, rather than the doings of other people. This definition also helpfully conveys the evaluative nature of gossip. Although it has been shown that criticism and negative evaluations account for only about five per cent of gossip time, gossip does generally involve the expression of opinions or feelings. Among the English, you will find that these opinions or feelings may often be implied, rather than directly stated, or conveyed more subtly in the tone of voice, but we rarely share details about ‘who is doing what with whom’ without providing some indication of our views on the matter.

  Privacy Rules

  In quoting the research findings on the pervasiveness of English gossip above, I am not suggesting that the English gossip any more than people in other cultures. I am sure that studies elsewhere would also find about two-thirds of conversation time dedicated to much the same social matters. The researcher responsible for the English findings (the evolutionary psychologist Robin Dunbar) is convinced that this is a universal human trait, and indeed maintains that language evolved to allow humans to gossip23 – as a substitute for the physical ‘social grooming’ of our primate ancestors, which became impractical among the much wider human social networks.

  What I am suggesting is that gossip may be particularly important to the English, because of our obsession with privacy. When I conducted interviews and focus-group discussions on gossip with English people of different ages and social backgrounds, it became clear that their enjoyment of gossip had much to do with the element of ‘risk’ involved. Although most of our gossip is fairly innocuous, it is still talk about people’s ‘private’ lives, and as such involves a sense of doing something naughty or forbidden.

  The ‘invasion of privacy’ involved in gossip is particularly relevant for the rather inhibited English, for whom privacy is an especially serious matter. It is impossible to overstate the importance of privacy in English culture. Jeremy Paxman points out that ‘The importance of privacy informs the entire organisation of the country, from the assumptions on which laws are based, to the buildings in which the English live.’ George Orwell observes that ‘The most hateful of all names in an English ear is Nosy Parker.’

  I would add that a disproportionate number of our most influential social rules and maxims are concerned with the maintenance of privacy: we are taught to mind our own business, not to pry, to keep ourselves to ourselves, not to make a scene or a fuss or draw attention to ourselves, and never to wash our dirty linen in public. It is worth noting again here that ‘How are you?’ is only treated as a ‘real’ question among very close personal friends or family;24 everywhere else, the automatic, ritual response is ‘Fine, thanks’, ‘OK, thanks’, ‘Oh, mustn’t grumble’, ‘Not bad, thanks’ or some equivalent, whatever your physical or mental state. If you are terminally ill, it is acceptable to say, ‘Not bad, considering.’

  As a result, thanks to the inevitable forbidden-fruit effect, we are a nation of curtain-twitchers, endlessly fascinated by the tabooed private lives of the ‘members of our social setting’. The English may not gossip much more than any other culture, but our privacy rules significantly enhance the value of gossip. The laws of supply and demand ensure that gossip is a precious social commodity among the English. ‘Private’ information is not given away lightly or cheaply to all and sundry, but only to those we know and trust.25

  This is one of the reasons why foreigners often complain that the English are cold, reserved, unfriendly and standoffish. In most other cultures, revealing basic personal data – your name, what you do for a living, whether you are married or have children, where you live – is no big deal: in England, extracting such apparently trivial information from a new acquaintance can be like pulling teeth; every question makes us wince and recoil.

  The Guessing-game Rule

  Unless you are the Queen, it is not considered entirely polite, for example, to ask someone directly, ‘What do you do?’, although if you think about it, this is the most obvious question to put to a new acquaintance, and the easiest way to start a conversation. But in addition to our privacy scruples, we English (especially the middle classes) seem to have a perverse need to make social life difficult for ourselves, so etiquette requires us to find a more roundabout, indirect way of discovering what people do for a living. It can be most amusing to listen to the tortured and devious lengths to which English people will go to ascertain a new acquaintance’s profession without actually asking the forbidden question. The guessing game, which is played at almost every middle-class social gathering where people are meeting each other for the first time, involves attempting to guess a person’s occupation from ‘clues’ in remarks made about other matters.

  A comment about traffic problems in the local area, for example, will elicit the response ‘Oh, yes, it’s a nightmare – and the rush hour is even worse: do you drive to work?’ The other person knows exactly what question is really intended, and will usually obligingly answer the unspoken enquiry as well as the spoken one, saying something like ‘Yes, but I work at the hospital, so at least I don’t have to get into the town centre.’ The questioner is now allowed to make a direct guess: ‘Oh, the hospital – you’re a doctor, then?’ (When two or three possible occupations are indicated, it is polite to name the highest-status one as a first guess – doctor rather than nurse, porter or medical student; solicitor rather than secretary. Also, even though an explicit guess is permitted at this stage, it is best expressed as an interrogative statement, rather than as a direct question.)

  Everyone knows the rules of this game, and most people tend to offer helpful ‘clues’ early in the conversation, to speed the process along. Even if you are shy, embarrassed about your job or trying to be enigmatic, it is considered very rude to prolong the clue-hunting stage of the game for too long, and once someone makes an explicit guess, you are obliged to
reveal your occupation. It is almost equally impolite to ignore any obvious ‘clue-dropping’ by your new acquaintance. If (to continue the medical theme) he or she mentions in passing that ‘My surgery is just round the corner from here’, you are honour-bound to hazard a guess: ‘Oh, so – you’re a GP?’

  When the person’s occupation is finally revealed, it is customary, however boring or predictable this occupation might be, to express surprise. The standard response to ‘Yes, I am a doctor [teacher, accountant, IT manager, secretary, etc.]’ is ‘Oh, really?!’ as though the occupation were both unexpected and fascinating. This is almost invariably followed by an embarrassed pause, as you search desperately for an appropriate comment or question about the person’s profession – and he or she tries to think of something modest, amusing, but somehow also impressive to say in response.

  Similar guessing-game techniques are often used to find out where people live, whether they are married, what school or university they went to, and so on. Some direct questions are more impolite than others. It is less rude, for example, to ask, ‘Where do you live?’ than ‘What do you do?’, but even this relatively inoffensive question is much better phrased in a more indirect manner, such as ‘Do you live nearby?’, or even more obliquely, ‘Have you come far?’ It is more acceptable to ask whether someone has children than to ask whether he or she is married, so the former question is generally used as a roundabout way of prompting clues that will provide the answer to the latter. (Many married English males do not wear wedding rings, so the children question is often used by single females to encourage them to reveal their marital status. This can only be done in an appropriate conversational context, however, as asking the children question ‘out of the blue’ would be too obvious an attempt to ascertain a male’s availability.)